THE  LITTLE 


OF  LAUGHTER 


•• 


presented 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


A  Little  Volume, 
but  GreatBook. 


—  CRAJSHAW 


TKe  LITTLE 
BOOK  OF 
LAUGHTER 

Compiled  and  Edited 
with,  an  Introduction  by 
ltfa//ace  and  Ranees  Rice 


Publishers 

THE  REILLY  &  BRITIDN  CO. 
Chicago 


<^ 


I  Copyright  191O 
by 

WieReiltr&BrittonGi 
<g   AIL  rights  reserved. 


Introduction 


IT  IS  believed  that  this  is  the  first  time  a  collection 
of  verse  devoted  to  Laughter  has  been  brought  to- 
gether, and  the  poems  which  follow  will  show,  better 
than  any  description  of  them,  what  an  interesting  and 
delectable  field  it  is  to  glean  in.  Yet  Laughter  is 
another  of  the  few  topics  which  have  appealed  little 
to  the  singers  of  this  or  any  other  day.  It  seems  as  if 
there  were  a  distrust  of  the  physical  act  that  struck 
them  dumb  before  it.  It  cannot  be  from  lack  of  the 
humorous  sense;  for  no  person  without  it  can  write 
poetry  at  all,  since  precisely  the  sense  of  proportion  is 
needed  for  expression  in  rhyme  and  rhythm  which  the 
sense  of  humor  ensures. 

Nor  is  it  in  any  sense  true  that  poetry  is  lacking  in 
the  element  of  mirth  and  merriment.  On  the  contrary, 
much  of  the  finest  verse  is  alive  with  the  spirit  of  joy, 
and  no  small  share  of  our  singing  is  devoted  to  jollity 
and  conviviality.  It  is  merely  that  Laughter  and 
Laughing,  the  crown  and  pinnacle  of  human  mirthful- 
ness,  have  not  been  seized  upon  by  the  poet  as  suited 
to  his  calmer  and  more  remote  form  of  artistic  expres- 
sion. Laughing  songs  there  are,  in  all  languages,  but 
not  laughing  poems;  and  it  may  be  shrewdly  suspected 
in  these  modern  days  that  the  poets  themselves  have 
been  laughed  at  too  much  and  too  often  for  them  to 
regard  Laughter  with  friendly  eyes. 

Yet,  as  Mr.  Blunt  proves  in  the  concluding  poem  of 
this  book,  it  is  possible  to  treat  Laughter  seriously  and 
with  dignity.  Not  one  living  being  on  this  earth 
laughs  as  an  expression  of  mirth  except  mortal  man; 
and  if  he  does  not  commemorate  the  fact,  surely  no  one 
else  can.  An  animal,  the  hyena,  makes  a  noise  that 
3 


A\ 


closely  resembles  our  laughter;  but  the  beast  is  of  too 
disgusting  a  nature  to  permit  his  celebration  in  poetry. 
On  the  other  hand,  two  birds,  our  own  northern  loon, 
and  the  giant  kingfisher  or  laughing  jackass  of  Austra- 
lia, also  use  a  sound  distinctly  akin  in  sound  to  our 
laughter  for  their  customary  cry,  and  both  of  these 
have  been  treated  in  verses  which  may  be  found  within. 
While  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  exhaust  the 
enormous  and  growing  body  of  English  poetry  on  any 
topic,  it  is  believed  that  a  large  part  of  the  poems 
devoted  to  Laughter  are  included  here,  their  number 
eked  out  by  verses  which  mention  Laughing,  and 
several  which  deal  with  individuals  who  were  regarded 
as  laughworthy. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


Index  of  Authors 


Addleshaw,  Percy     .                            ...  37 

Bannister,  Christopher       .         .         .         .33,  34,  45 

Bell,  John  Joy 21 

Beranger,  Pierre  Jean  de            ...           26,  54 

Blanden,  Charles  G.            ....            15,  58 

Blunt,  Wilfrid  Scawen 62 

Boynton,  Henry  Walcott            ....  40 

Burgess,   Gelett 36 

Byron,  George  Lord            .         .         .         .            34,  53 

Campion,   Thomas     ......  49 

Coleridge,  Hartley 36 

Dobson,  Austin       ' 12,  28,  60 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman       .....  17 

Eliot,  George  (Mary  Ann  Evans  Cross)     .         .  61 

Gilbert,  William  Schwenck         .         .         .16,  29,  52 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 13 

Graves,  Alfred  Perceval     .....  20 

Greene,  Matthew       ......  21 

Herbert,  George 62 

Herford,  Oliver 49 

Heine,  Heinrich 51 

Holden,  John  Jarvis           .          .           11,  19,  35,  39,  53 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 14 

Hovey,  Richard 31 

Hunt,  Leigh 9 

Lampman,  Archibald 61 

Landor,  Walter  Savage     .         .         .         .            17,  25 

Lowell,  James  Russell        .'....  61 

Marble,   Oliver           ...           13,  39,  42,  51,  59 

Marot,  Clement 9 

Martialis,  Marcus  Valerius        ....  49 


Martin,  Arthur  Patchett 
Milton,  John     . 
Peters,  William  Theodore 
Pope,  Alexander 
Preston,  Margaret  Junkin 
Rabelais,  Frangois     . 
Rice,  Wallace  .      r  . 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb     . 
Rose,  Ray  Clarke 
Scollard,  Clinton 
Seaman,  Owen 
Shakespeare,  William 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 
Shorter,  Dora  Sigerson 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 
Symons,  Arthur 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord     . 
Toynbee,   William     . 
Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 


LITTLE 
BOOK  OF 
LAUGHTER 


Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

—  John  Milton. 


Laughter  Holding  Both  His  Sides 

Aye,  thou  varlet!     Laugh  away! 
All  the  world  's  a  holiday! 
Laugh  away  and  roar  and  shout 
Till  thy  hoarse  tongue  lolleth  out! 
Bloat  thy  cheeks  and  bulge  thine  eyes 
Unto  bursting;  pelt  thy  thighs 
With  thy  swollen  palms,  and  roar 
As  thou  never  hast  before! 
Lustier!  wilt  thou!  peal  on  peal! 
Stiflest?     Squat  and  grind  thy  heel  — 
Wrestle  with  thy  loins,  and  then 
Wheeze  the  whiles,  and  whoop  again! 

—  James  Whitcomb  Eiley. 


Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone; 
For  this  brave  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth; 
It  has  troubles  enough  of  its  own. 

—  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 
8 


On  the  Laugh  of  Madame  D'Albret 

Yes,  that  fair  neck,  too  beautiful  by  half, 

Those  eyes,  that  voice,  that  bloom,  all  do  her  honor: 

Yet  after  all,  that  little  giddy  laugh 
Is  what,  in  my  mind,  sits  the  best  upon  her. 

Good  God!    'T  would  make  the  very  streets  and  ways 
Through  which  she  passes,  burst  into  a  pleasure! 
Did  melancholy  come  to  mar  my  days, 
And  kill  me  in  the  lap  of  too  much  leisure, 
No  spell  were  wanting,  from  the  dead  to  raise  me, 
But  only  that  sweet  laugh,  wherewith  she  slays  me. 
—  Leigh  Hunt,  from  the  French  of  Marot. 


God  gave  man 

His  life  and  breath, 
Gave  him  knowledge 

Of  his  death; 
And  thereafter 
Gave  him  laughter. 

—  Wallace  Eice. 


9 


The  Seraph  of  the  Flaming  Sword 

The  gates  had  locked  and  barred, 
As  Father  Adam  stands  aghast 

At  life,  so  newly  hard; 
Eve  bows  beside  him  in  her  tears  — 

The  first  she  's  ever  shed; 
For  on  their  hearts  the  primal  curse 

Hangs  heavier  than  lead. 

Henceforth  in  sweat  their  bread  they  eat, 

And  mourn  the  sorry  fate 
That  drives  them  from  the  bliss  within 

The  paradisal  gate; 
Their  angel  playmates  ne'er  again 

They  '11  see  —  and  doubly  grieve 
As  off  they  set,  most  mournfully, 

Poor  Adam  and  poor  Eve. 

The  mountain  clays  besmear  them  o'er, 

The  wood  stains  foot  and  hand  — 
They  are  a  funny  looking  pair 

As  eye  to  eye  they  stand; 
When  comes  a  sound  of  sudden  wings 

That  turns  their  sad  hearts  glad, 
And  lo!  there  flies  down  unto  them 

A  blithesome  angel  lad. 


His  dimpled  cheeks  are  fat  and  fair, 

His  aureole  's  askew, 
His  eyes  are  twinkling,  and  his  smile 

Is  broad  enough  for  two; 

10 


The  look  of  him  is  merriment, 

The  sight  of  him  is  mirth; 
And  Eve  and  Adam  tliink  he  is 

The  jolliest  thing  on  earth! 

"Who  sent  you?"  curious  Eve  inquires  — 

She  's  curious  still,  is  she; 
And  Adam  echoes,  "Who  sent  you?"  — 

Still  following  suit,  you  see. 
"The  Lord  in  mercy  sends  me  here  — 

From  Eden  straight  I  flew  — 
To  turn  the  world  all  golden,  when 

It  seems  to  be  all  blue." 

No  longer  lonely,  quite  refreshed, 

They  march  beside  the  boy; 
The  world  may  have  its  sorrows,  but 

It  holds  a  lot  of  joy; 
And  ever  since,  the  weariest  wight 

Keeps  thoughts  of  Paradise, 
And  quite  forgets  his  work  and  woe 

When  Laughter  to  him  flies. 

—  Wallace  Rice. 


'Twixt  a  laugh  and  a  sigh 

We  come  and  we  go. 
We  are  born  and  we  die 
'Twixt  a  laugh  and  a  sigh, 
With  the  stars  in  the  sky 

Or  the  sun  on  the  snow  — 
'Twixt  a  laugh  and  a  sigh 

We  come  and  we  go. 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 
11 


A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons 

When  Spring  comes  laughing 

By  vale  and  hill, 
By  wind-flower  walking 

And  daffodil, — 
Sing  stars  of  morning, 

Sing  morning  skies, 
Sing  blue  of  speedwell, — 

And  my  Love's  eyes. 

When  comes  the  Summer, 

Full-leaved  and  strong, 
And  gay  birds  gossip 

The  orchard  long, — 
Sing  hid,  sweet  honey 

That  no  bee  sips; 
Sing  red,  red  roses, — 

And  my  Love's  lips. 

When  Autumn  scatters 

The  leaves  again, 
And  piled  sheaves  bury 

The  broad-wheeled  wain, — 
Sing  flutes  of  harvest 

Where  men  rejoice; 
Sing  rounds  of  reapers, — 

And  my  Love's  voice. 


But  when  comes  Winter 
With  hail  and  storm, 

And  red  fire  roaring 
And  ingle  warm, — 
12 


Sing  first  sad  going 

Of  friends  that  part; 
Then  sing  glad  meeting, — 

And  my  Love's  heart. 

—  Austin  Dobson. 

Ye  Laughing  Maids 

Ye  laughing  maids,  what  rippling  rill, 
Though  ferny  dells  its  raptures  fill, 

Makes  dulcet  melody  like  yours? 

What  floweret  that  the  bee  immures, 
What  moonlit  lily,  daffodil, 
Or  e'en  the  rose  whose  scents  distil 
When  sunshine  slants  on  some  June  hill, 

Hath  half  the  tempting  of  your  lures, 
Ye  laughing  maids? 


In  sooth,  through  life,  despite  the  ill 
Great  gods  grind  slow  from  mill  on  mill, 
Heaped  high  with  woes  each  year  matures, 
One  memory  wholly  dear  endures  — 
And  this  your  virgin  voices  thrill, 
Ye  laughing  maids! 

—  Oliver  Marble. 

We  look  before  and  after, 

We  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught. 

—  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

The  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind. 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
18 


The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous 

I  wrote  some  lines  once  on  a  time 

In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good. 


They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb. 

"These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added  (as  a  trifling  jest), 

"There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 

And  saw  him  peep  within; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next;    the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear; 
He  read  the  third;    a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth;   he  broke  into  a  roar; 
The  fifth;   his  waistband  split; 
14 


The  sixth;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 
And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 

I  watched  that  wretched  man, 
And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 

As  funny  as  I  can. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Shake  the  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter. 

—  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson. 

Rigadoon 

Whatever  the  throng, 
I  will  sing  my  song 
And  gay  shall  it  be, 
Because,  you  '11  agree, 
If  bitter  the  strain 
There  *s  nothing  to  gain 
And  much  to  be  lost  — 
And  mirth  pays  the  cost, 
Since  earth  has  no  need 
Of  the  sad-sighing  reed, 
But  much  doth  desire 
The  balm-breathing  lyre. 
Oh,  therefore  let  me 
In  glad-sounding  key 
Pipe  early  and  late, 
With  sweet  Laughter  mate, 
Till  Sorrow  forget 
Her  lashes  so  wet 
And  dance  to  my  tune 
A  light  rigadoon. 

—  Charles  Q.  Blanden. 
15 


Song 

Quixotic  is  his  enterprise,  and  hopeless  his  adventure  is. 
Who  seeks  for  jocularities  that  have  n't  yet  been 

said. 

The  world  has  joked  incessantly  for  over  fifty  centuries, 
And  every  joke  that  's  possible  has  long  ago  been 

made. 

I  started  as  a  humorist  with  lots  of  mental  fizziness, 

But  humor  is  a  drug  that  it  's  the  fashion  to  abuse; 

For  my  stock  in  trade,  my  fixtures,  and  the  good-will 

of  the  business 

No  reasonable  offer  I  am  likely  to  refuse. 
And  if  anybody  choose 
He  may  circulate  the  news 
That  no  reasonable  offer  I  am  likely  to  refuse. 

O  happy  was  that  humorist  —  the  first  that  made  a 

pun  at  all  — 
Who  when  a  joke  occurred  to  him,  however  poor  and 

mean, 
Was  absolutely  certain  that  it  never  had  been  done 

at  all  — 
How  popular  at  dinners  must  that  humorist  have 

been! 
O  the  days  when  some  stepfather  for  the  query  held  a 

handle  out, 

The  door  mat  from  the  scraper,  is  it  distant  very  far? 
And  when  no  one  knew  where  Moses  was  when  Aaron 

put  the  candle  out, 

And  no  one  had  discovered  that  a  door  could  be 
a- jar! 

But  your  modern  hearers  are 
In  their  tastes  particular, 
16 


And  they  sneer  if  you  inform  them  that  a  door  can 
be  a- jar! 


And 


In  search  of  quip  and  quiddity  I  've  sat  all  day,  alone, 

apart  — 

And  all  that  I  could  hit  on  as  a  problem  was  —  to  find 

Analogy  between  a  scrag  of  mutton  and  a  Bony-part, 

Which  offers  slight  employment  to  the  speculative 

mind: 
For  you  cannot  call  it  very  good,  however  great  your 

charity  — 

It  's  not  the  sort  of  humor  that  is  greeted  with  a 
shout  — 

I   've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  mine  of 
jocularity, 

In  present  Anno  Domini,  is  worked  completely  out! 
Though  the  notion  you  may  scout, 
I  can  prove  beyond  a  doubt 

That  the  mine  of  jocularity  is  utterly  worked  out! 

-  William  S.  Gilbert. 

The  man  who  frets  at  worldly  strife 

Grows  sallow,  sour,  and  thin; 
Give  us  the  lad  whose  happy  life 

Is  one  perpetual  grin! 

—  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

Time  past  I  thought  it  worth  my  while 
To  hunt  all  day  to  catch  a  smile: 
Now  ladies  do  not  smile,  but  laugh, 
I  like  it  not  so  much  by  half; 
And  yet  perhaps  it  might  be  shown 
A  laugh  is  but  a  smile  full-blown. 

—  Walter  Savage  Landor. 
17 


Yet 

Sing  me  a  drawing-room  song,  darling! 

Sing  toy  the  sunset's  glow; 
Now  while  the  shadows  are  long,  darling; 

Now  while  the  lights  are  low; 
Something  so  chaste  and  coy,  darling! 

Something  that  melts  the  chest; 
Milder  than  even  Molloy,  darling! 

Better  than  Bingham's  toest. 


— *»^ 

//L 


Sing  me  a  drawing-room  song,  darling! 

Sing  as  you  sang  of  yore, 
Lisping  of  love  that  is  strong,  darling! 

Strong  as  a  big  toarn-door; 
Let  the  true  knight  toe  toold,  darling! 

Let  him  arrive  too  late; 
Stick  in  a  toower  of  gold,  darling! 

Stick  in  a  golden  gate. 

Sing  me  a  drawing-room  song,  darling! 

Bear  on  the  angels'  wings 
Children  that  know  no  wrong,  darling! 

Little  cherutoic  things! 
Sing  of  their  sunny  hair,  darling! 

Get  them  to  die  in  June; 
Wake,  if  you  can,  on  the  stair,  darling! 

Echoes  of  tiny  shoon. 


Sing  me  a  drawing-room  song,  darling! 

Sentiment  may  toe  false, 
Yet  it  will  worry  along,  darling! 

Set  to  a  turn-turn  valse; 

18 


See  that  the  verses  are  few,  darling! 

Keep  to  the  rule  of  three; 
That  will  be  better  for  you,  darling! 

Certainly  better  for  me. 

—  Owen  Seaman. 

Laughter  and  Love 

O  Laughter,  Love,  delicious  pair, 

Together  anything  ye  dare; 
Then  why  doth  Love  put  on  the  rue, 
Or  heartless  Laughter  ring  untrue, 

When  hand  in  hand  ye  are  so  fair? 

Gay  Laughter  takes  from  Love  all  care, 
Dear  Love  makes  Laughter  sweet  as  dew; 
The  gods  preserve  you  one,  not  two, 
O    Laughter,    Love! 

When  Laughter  loves,  what  mirth  is  there! 
And  when  Love  laughs,  the  heart  's  laid  bare! 
When  laughing  Love  goes  forth  to  sue, 
Or  loving  Laughter  comes  to  woo, 
What  man  or  maid  escapes  your  snare, 
O  Laughter,  Love? 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 


Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time: 

Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes 

And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bagpiper; 

And  others  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 

That  they  '11  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile 

Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 
19 


Father  O'Flynn 

Of  priests  we  can  offer  a  charmin'  variety, 
Far  renowned  for  larnin'  and  piety; 
Still,  I  'd  advance  ye  widout  impropriety, 

Father  O'Flynn  as  the  flower  of  them  all. 
Here  's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Slainte,  and  slain te,  and  slainte  agin; 

Powerfulest   preacher,   and 
Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 


Don't  talk  of  your  Provost  and  Fellows  of  Trinity, 
Famous  for  ever  at  Greek  and  Latinity, 
Faix  and  the  divils  and  all  at  Divinity, 

Father  O'Flynn  'd  make  hares  of  them  all! 
Come,  I  vinture  to  give  ye  my  word, 
Niver  the  likes  of  his  logic  was  heard, 

Down  from  mythology 

Into  thayology, 
Troth!  and  conchology  if  he   'd  the  call. 


Och!  Father  O'Flynn  you  've  the  wonderful  way  wid 

you, 

All  ould  sinners  are  wishful  to  pray  wid  you, 
All  the  young  childer  are  wild  for  to  play  wid  you, 

You  've  such  a  way  wid  you,  Father  avick! 
Still  for  all  you  've  so  gintle  a  souL 
Gad,  you  've  your  flock  in  the  grandest  control; 

Checkin'  the  crazy  ones, 

Coaxin'  onaisy  ones, 
Lifting  the  lazy  ones  on  wid  the  stick. 

20 


And  though  quite  avoidin'  all  foolish  frivolity, 

Still,  at  all  seasons  of  innocent  jollity, 

Where  was  the  play-boy  could  claim  an  equality 

At  comicality,  Father,  wid  you? 
Once  the  Bishop  looked  grave  at  your  jest, 
Till  this  remark  set  him  off  wid  the  rest: 
"Is  it  lave  gayety 
All  to  the  laity? 
Cannot  the  clargy  be  Irishmen  too?" 


Here's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Slainte,  and  slainte,  and  slainte  agin; 

Powerfulest  preacher,  and 

Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 

—  Alfred  Perceval  Graves. 


]J 


The  Cod 

Some  people  like  the  cod  because 

He  's  good  to  bake  or  boil, 
But  every  child  must  love  the  fish 

Who  gives  such  pleasant  oil. 

When  thrice  a  day  mamma  looks  gay, 

And  holds  the  brimming  cup, 
Oh,  don't  you  laugh  and  shout  "hooray!" 

And  fly  to  snap  it  up! 

—  John  Joy  Bell. 


Laugh  and  be  well. 

—  Matthevr  Greene. 
21 


Lines  to  the  Laughing  Jackass 

I  come  from  busy  haunts  of  men 

With  Nature  to  commune, 
Which  you,  it  seems,  observe,  and  then 

Laugh  out  like  some  buffoon. 

You  cease,  and  through  the  forest  drear 

I  pace  with  sense  of  awe, 
When  once  again  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

I  look  aloft,  to  yonder  place 

Where  placidly  you  sit, 
And  tell  you  to  your  very  face, 

I  do  not  like  your  wit. 

I  'm  in  no  mood  for  blatant  jest, 

I  hate  your  mocking  song, 
My  weary  soul  demands  the  rest 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 

Besides,  there  passes  through  my  brain 

The  poet's  love  of  fame  — 
Why  should  not  an  Australian  strain 

Immortalize  my  name? 

And  so  I  pace  the  forest  drear, 

Filled  with  a  sense  of  awe, 
When  louder  still  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

Yet,  truly,  Jackass,  it  may  be, 
My  words  are  all  unjust: 

22 


You  laugh  at  what  you  hear  and  see, 
And  laugh  because  you  must. 

You  've  seen  Man,  civilized  and  rude, 

Of  varying  race  and  creed: 
The  black-skinned  savage  almost  nude, 

The  Englishman  in  tweed.     .     .    . 

While  you,  from  yonder  lofty  height, 

Have  studied  human  ways, 
And  with  a  satirist's  delight 

Dissected  hidden  traits. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on!     Your  rapturous  shout 

Again  on  me  intrudes; 
But  I  have  found  your  secret  out, 

O  Cynic  of  the  Woods. 

Well!  I  confess,  grim  mocking  elf, 

Howe'er  I  rhapsodize, 
That  I  am  more  in  love  with  self 

Than  with  the  earth  and  skies. 

So  I  will  lay  the  epic  by 

That  I  had  just  begun; 
Why  should  I  scribble?    Let  me  lie 

And  bask  here  in  the  sun. 


And  let  me  own,  were  I  endowed 
With  your  fine  humorous  sense, 
I,  too,  should  laugh  —  aye,  quite  as  loud, 
At  all  Man's  vain  pretence. 

—  Arthur  Fatchett  Martin. 
23 


I       f 

M 


Lines  to  Miss  Florence  Huntingdon 

Sweet  maiden  of  Passamaquoddy 

Shall  we  seek  for  communion  of  souls 

Where  the  deep  Mississippi  meanders 
Or  the  distant  Saskatchewan  rolls? 

Ah,  no!  —  for  in  Maine  I  will  find  thee 

A  sweetly  sequestrated  nook, 
Where  the  far-winding  Skoodoowabskooksis 

Conjoins  with  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

There  wander  two  beautiful  rivers 
With  many  a  winding  and  crook; 

The  one  is  the  Skoodoowabskooksis; 
The  other,  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

Ah,  sweetest  of  haunts!  though  unmentioned 

In  geography,  atlas,  or  book, 
How  fair  is  the  Skoodoowabskooksis 

When  joining  the  Skoodoowabskook! 

Our  cot  shall  be  close  by  the  waters, 

Within  that  sequestrated  nook, 
Reflected  by  Skoodoowabskooksis, 

And  mirrored  in  Skoodoowabskook. 

You  shall  sleep  to  the  music  of  leaflets, 

By  zephyrs  in  wantonness  shook, 
To  dream  of  the  Skoodoowabskooksis 

And,  perhaps,  of  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

Your  food  shall  be  fish  from  the  waters, 
Drawn  forth  on  the  point  of  a  hook, 
24 


From  murmuring  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
Or  meandering  Skoodoowabskook. 

You  shall  quaff  the  most  sparkling  of  waters, 
Drawn  forth  from  a  silvery  brook 

Which  flows  to  the   Skoodowabskooksis, 
And  so  to  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

And  you  shall  preside  at  the  banquet, 
And  I  shall  wait  on  you  as  cook; 

And  we   '11  talk  of  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
And  sing  of  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

Let  others  sing  loudly  of  Saco, 
Of  Quoddy  and  Tattamagouche, 

Of  Kenebeccasis  and  Quaco, 
Of  Merigoniche  and  Buctouche, 

Of  Nashwaak  and  Magaguadavique, 

Or  Memmerimammericook; 
There  's  none  like  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 

Excepting  the  Skoodoowabskook! 


The  burden  of  an  ancient  rhyme 

Is  "By  the  forelock  seize  on  Time." 

Time  in  some  corner  heard  it  said; 

Pricking  his  ears,  away  he  fled; 

And,  seeing  me  upon  the  road, 

A  hearty  curse  on  me  bestowed. 

"What  if  I  do  the  same  to  thee? 

How  would  thou  like  it?"  thundered  he, 

And  without  answer  thereupon 

Seizing  my  forelock  — it  was   gone. 

—  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

25 


The  King  of   Yvetot 

There  flourished  once  a   potentate 

Whom  History  does  n*t  name; 
He  rose  at  ten,  retired  at  eight, 

And  snored  unknown  to  Fame! 
A  night  cap  for  his  crown  he  wore, 

A  common  cotton  thing, 
Which  Jeanette  to  his  bedside  bore, 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

With  four  diurnal  banquets  he 

His  appetite  allayed, 
And  on  a  jackass  leisurely 

His  royal  progress  made. 
No  cumbrous  state  his  steps  would  clog, 

Fear  to  the  winds  he  'd  fling; 
His  single  escort  was  a  dog, 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

He  owned  to  only  one  excess — 

He  doted  on  his  glass; 
But  when  a  king  gives  happiness, 

Why  that,  you  see,  will  pass! 
On  every  bottle,  small  or  great, 

For  which  he  used  to  ring, 
He  laid  n  tax  inordinate, 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 
26 


Such  crowds  of  pretty  girls  he  found 

Occasion  to  admire, 
It  gave  his  subjects  double  ground 

For  greeting  him  as  Sire! 
To  shoot  for  cocoa-nuts  he  manned 

His  army  every  spring, 
But  all  conscription  sternly  banned 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

He  eyed  no  neighboring  domain 

With  envy  or  with  greed, 
And,  like  a  pattern  sovereign, 

Took  Pleasure  for  his  creed! 
Yet  't  was  not,  if  aright  I  ween, 

Until  his  life  took  wing, 
His  subjects  saw  that  he  had  been 

A  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 


This  worthy  monarch,  readers  mine, 

You  even  may  now  see 
Embellishing  a  tavern-sign 

Well  known  to  you  and  me. 
There,  when  the  fete-day  bottle  flows, 

Their  bumpers  they  will  bring, 
And  toast  beneath  his  very  nose 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

-William  Toynbee,  from  the  French  of  Beranger. 
27 


The  Ballade  of  Prose  and  Rhyme 

When  the  roads  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut, 
In  November  fogs,  in  December  snows, 

When  the  North  Wind  howls,  and  the  doors  are  shut, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; — 
But  whenever  a  scent  from  the  whitehorn  blows, 

And  the  jasmine-stars  to  the  casement  climb, 
And  a  Rosalind-face  at  the  lattice  shows, 

Then  hey!  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 
When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarest  toes, 

When  the  mind  (like  a  beard)  has  a  "formal  cut," 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; — 
But  whenever  the  May-blood  stirs  and  glows, 

And  the  young  year  draws  to  the  "golden  prime," — 
And  Sir  Borneo  sticks  in  his  ear  a  rose, 

Then  hey!  — .for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant-strut 
In  a  changing  quarrel  of  "Ayes"  and  "Noes," 

In  a  starched  procession  of  "If"  and  "But," 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; — 
But  whenever  a  soft  glance  softer  grows, 

And  the  light  hours  dance  to  the  trysting-time, 
And  the  secret  is  told  "that  no  one  knows," 

Then  hey!  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

In  the  work-a-day  world, — for  its  needs  and  woes, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; 
But  whenever  the  May-bells  clash  and  chime! 
Then  hey!  —  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

— Austin  Dobson. 
28 


Scena 

Cheerily  carols  the  lark 

Over  the  cot. 
Merrily  whistles  the  clerk 
Scratching  a  blot. 
But  the  lark 
And  the  clerk, 
I  remark, 
Comfort  me  not! 

Over  the  ripening  peach 

Buzzes  the  bee. 
Splash  on  the  billowy  beach 
Tumbles  the  sea. 
But   the   peach 
And  the  beach 
They  are  each 
Nothing  to  me! 

—  William  Schwenck  Gilbert. 


As  it  's  give'  me  to  perceive, 

I  most  cert '  in 'y  believe 

When  a  man  's  just  glad  plum  through, 

God  's  pleased  with  him,  same  as  you. 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

Laughter  and  song  for  my  cheer, 

Life  is  so  fair. 
None  so  happy  as  I 

Anywhere; 

Birds  in  the  woods  carol  clear, 
White  clouds  in  the  sky. 

—  Dora  Sigerson  Shorter. 
29 


Pierrot's  Philosophy 

Where  are  you  going,  dressed  in  white, 

Pierrot,  Pierrot, 
Since  Pierrette  has  deceived  you  quite? 

Tira,  tin,  tira! 
"I  go  to  visit  Columbine," 

Said  Pierrot,  Pierrot, 
"To  mend  this  broken  heart  of  mine. 

Tira,  tiri,  tira!" 

The  story  is  not  new, 

It  may  apply  to  you; 
If  sweethearts  will  deceive, 

Why,  hang  it,  do  not  care;  oh!  hang  it,  do  not  grieve, 
But — imitate  Pierrot. 


If  Columbine  should  jilt  you,  too, 

Pierrot,  Pierrot, 
In  heaven's  name,  what  would  you  do? 

Tira,  tiri,  tira! 
"Then  to  another  girl  I  '11  go," 

Said  Pierrot,  Pierrot, 
' '  She  surely  will  console  Pierrot, 

Tira,  tiri,  tira!" 


The  story  is  not  new, 
It  may  apply  to  you; 
If  sweethearts  will  deceive, 

Why,  hang  it,  do  not  care;  oh!  hang  it,  do  not  grieve, 
But — imitate  Pierrot. 

— William  Theodore  Peters. 
30 


From  "Barney  McGee" 

Barney  McGee,  there  's  no  end  of  good  luck  in  you, 
Will-o'-the-wisp,  with  a  flicker  of  Puck  in  you, 
Wild  as  a  bull-pup,  and  all  of  his  pluck  in  you  — 

Let  a  man  tread  on  your  coat  and  he  '11  see! 
Eyes  like  the  lakes  of  Killarney  for  clarity, 
Nose  that  turns  up  without  any  vulgarity, 
Smile  like  a  cherub,  and  hair  that  is  carroty  — 
Whoop  you  're  a  rarity,  Barney  McGee! 
Mellow  as  Tarragon, 
Prouder  than  Aragon  — 
Hardly  a  paragon, 

You  will  agree  — 
Here  's  all  that  's  fine  to  you! 
Books  and  old  wine  to  you! 
Girls  be  divine  to  you, 

Barney  McGee!     .    .     . 

Och,  and  the  girls  whose  poor  hearts  you  deracinate, 
Whirl  and  bewilder  and  flutter  and  fascinate! 
Faith,  it  's  so  killing  you  are,  you  assassinate  — 

Murder  's  the  word  for  you,  Barney  McGee! 
Bold  when  they  're  sunny,  and  smooth  when  they  're 

showery  — 

Oh,  but  the  style  of  you,  fluent  and  flowery! 
Chesterfield's  way,  with  a  touch  of  the  Bowery! 
How  would  they  silence  you,  Barney  machree? 
Naught  can  your  gab  allay, 
Learned  as  Eabelais  — 
You  in  his  abbey  lay 

Once  on  the  spree. 
Here  's  to  the  smile  of  you!  — 
Oh,  but  the  guile  of  you! — 
And  a  long  while  of  you, 
Barney  McGee! 
31 


Facile  with  phrases  of  length  and  Latinity, 

Like  honorificabilitudinity, 

Where  is  the  maid  could  resist  your  vicinity, 

Wiled  by  the  impudent  grace  of  your  plea? 
Then  your  vivacity  and  pertinacity 
Carry  the  day  with  the  divil's  audacity; 
No  mere  veracity  robs  your  sagacity 
Of  perspicacity,  Barney  McGee. 
When  all  is  new  to  them, 
What  will  you  do  to  them? 
Will  you  be  true  to  them? 

Who  shall  decree? 
Here  's  a  fair  strife  to  you! 
Health  and  long  life  to  you! 
And  a  great  wife  to  you, 
Barney  McGee! 


Barney  McGee,  you  're  the  pick  of  gentility; 
Nothing  can  phase  you,  you  've  such  a  facility; 
Nobody  ever  yet  found  your  utility  — 

There  is  the  charm  of  you,  Barney  McGee; 
Under  conditions  that  others  would  stammer  on, 
Still  undisturbed  as  a  cat  or  a  Cameron, 
Polished  as  somebody  in  the  Decameron, 

Putting  the  glamour  on  prince  or  Pawnee. 
In  your  meanderin', 
Love  and  philanderin', 
Calm  as  a  mandarin 
Sipping  his  tea! 
Under  the  art  of  you, 
Parcel  and  part  of  you, 
Here  's  to  the  heart  of  you, 
Barney  McGee! 


32 


You  who  were  ever  alert  to  befriend  a  man, 
You  who  were  ever  the  first  to  defend  a  man, 
You  who  had  always  the  money  to  lend  a  man, 

Down  on  his  luck  and  hard  up  for  a  V! 
Sure,  you  '11  be  playing  a  harp  in  beatitude  — 
And  a  quare  sight  you  will  be  in  that  attitude  — 
Some  day,  where  gratitude  seems  but  a  platitude, 
You  '11  find  your  latitude,  Barney  McGee. 
That  's  no  flim-flam  at  all, 
Frivol  or  sham  at  all, 
Just  the  plain  —  damn  it  all, 

Have  one  with  me! 
Here  's  one  and  more  to  you! 
Friends  by  the  score  to  you, 
True  to  the  core  to  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

— Richard  Hovey. 

I  am  not  sad,  and  Laughter's  cup 
Oft  comes  to  me.    I  drink  it  up, 
In  thankfulness  that  so  much  mirth 
Should  fall  to  one  so  long  on  earth; 
And  sometimes  sit  to  muse  again 
Upon  the  laughter  of  us  men: 
How  often  for  unworthy  things 
Against  a  startled  sky  it  rings, 
How  often  it  is  half  a  lie 
To  please  the  ape  that  's  standing  by; 
And  yearn  with  all  my  heart  for  joy 
Like  that  in  laughter  of  a  boy, 
Who  merely  laughs  because  he  must, 
At  simple  things,  in  simple  trust  — 
All  mirth,  whole-hearted  merriment, 
As  happy  as  't  is  innocent. 

— Christopher  Bannister. 
33 


Thalia 

Since  first  you  crowned  the  rustic's  vernal  feast, 
O  muse!  with  laughter  and  your  comic  art, 
And  in  the  rural  pastimes  bore  your  part 
With  broadest  jest  and  mirth  that  ay  increased 

Your  sway  has  traveled  from  the  classic  East 
To  banter  care,  and  fill  the  throbbing  mart 
Of  tragic  life  with  whims  and  quirks  that  start 
The  pulse  to  thrill  with  joy  where  joy  had  ceased. 

Behold!    To-day  your  crook  and  grinning  mask 
Are  greeted  as  if  royal  tokens  sent 
To  end  the  sordid  soul's  imprisonment 

And  gild  with  wit  the  plodder's  weary  task; 
To  make  despair  the  laggard's  scourge,  at  most, 
And  fortune's  fiercest  fling  a  futile  boast. 

— Ray  ClarktEose. 

No  baby  has  to  learn  to  cry: 

But  Oh,  how  eagerly  we  try 

To  teach  the  little  ones  from  birth 

Smiles,  laughter  —  anything  of  mirth! 

—  Christopher  Bannister. 


I  fear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire; 
And  yet,  methinks,  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laughter 
Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 

— George  Lord  Byron. 

Better  write  of  laughter  than  of  tears; 
Laughter  is  the  natural  function  of  man. 

—  Frangois  Eabelais. 
34 


The  Quarrel 

Love  and  Laughter  fall  at  outs: 
Clouds  grow  heavy  in  the  sky 
And  the  sun  is  like  to  die 

When  Love  's  glum  and  Laughter  flouts. 

Love  went  forth  that  day  to  woo  — 
Laughter  stayed  at  home  to  frown; 
Love,  once  light  as  the  thistledown, 

Came  again,  most  sad  to  view; 

For  the  maiden  he  would  see 

Looked  amazed,  and  turned  away; 
Where  was  Love,  once  blithe  and  gay, 

In  that  face  of  misery? 

Laughter  to  the  damsel  went: 
She  in  wonder  gazed  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  grown  harsh  and  grim 

Sent  him  home  again,  forspent. 

Laughter  looked  at  Love,  and  sighed; 

Love  and  Laughter  gazed  with  tears; 

Both  dismissed  their  doubts  and  fears, 
Made  it  up,  and  kissed  and  cried. 


Hand  in  hand  they  now  appear  — 
Lives  there  lass  in  any  lane 
Who  would  dare  deny  the  twain, 
When  Love  's  gay  and  Laughter  dear? 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 
35 


Vive  la  Bagatelle! 

Sing  a  song  of  foolishness,  laughing  stocks  and  cranks! 
The  more  there  are  the  merrier,  come  and  join   the 

ranks! 

Life  is  dry  and  stupid;  whoop  her  up  a  bit! 
Donkeys  live  in  clover;  bray  and  throw  a  fit! 

Take  yourself  in  earnest,  never  stop  to  think, 
Strut  and  swagger  boldly,  dress  in  red  and  pink; 
Prate  of  stuff  and  nonsense,  get  yourself  abused; 
Some  one  's  got  to  play  the  fool  to  keep  the  crowd 
amused! 


Bully  for  the  idot!     Bully  for  the  guy! 

You  could  be  a  prig  yourself,  if  you  would  only  try! 

Altruistic  asses  keep  the  fun  alive; 

Clowns  are  growing  scarcer;   hurry  and  arrive! 

I  seen  a  crazy  critic  a-writin'  of  a  screed; 
' '  Tendencies ' '  and  ' '  Unities ' '  —  Maeterlinck,  indeed ! 
He  wore  a  paper  collar,  and  his  tie  was  up  behind; 
If  that  's  the  test  of  Culture,  then  I  'm  glad  I  'm  not 
refined! 

Let  me  laugh  at  you;  then  you  can  laugh  at  me; 
Then  we  "11  josh  together  everything  we  see; 
Every  one  's  a  nincompoop  to  another's  view; 
Laughter  makes  the  sun  shine;  Boop-de-doodle-doo! 

— Gelett  Burgess. 

And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 
To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart. 

—  Hartley  Coleridge. 
3G 


The  Mask  of  Mirth 

Ho!  this  is  Mirth,  fat-cheeked  and  laughing-eyed, 
And  wide  of  mouth  where  impish  dimples  lurk 
In  playful  negligence  —  content  to  shirk 
The  earnestness  and  sober  sense  of  pride, 

'     L-trs    THAT-  *rr    o/ftpf 

fi.cn. 


In  grins  that  ripple  with  content,  and  smirk 
Of  perfect  joy  or  sly  satiric  quirk 
That  smacks  of  roguishness  personified. 

And  is  not  this  the  best  —  to  make  a  jest 

Of  life,  and  sweep  the  veil  of  sorrow  by; 

To  steep  the  soul  in  mirthful  carelessness, 
And  turn  unheeding  ears  to  care's  behest, 

Ambition's  strident  caM,  or  sweet  Love's  sigh? 

Ah,  Mirth,  a  truce;  that  grin  may  mask  distress. 

—  Bay  Clark»Rose. 


It  May  Be 

It  may  be  we  shall  know  in  the  hereafter 
Why  we,  begetting  hopes,  give  birth  to  fears, 

And  why  the  world  's  too  beautiful  for  laughter, 
Too  beautiful  for  tears. 

—  Percy  Addleshaw. 


Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a; 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 

37 


At  Fontainebleau 

It  was  a  day  of  sun  and  rain, 

Uncertain  as  a  child's  swift  moods; 

And  I  shall  never  spend  again 
So  blithe  a  day  among  the  woods. 


Was  it  because  the  gods  were  pleased 
That  they  were  awful  in  our  eyes, 

Whom  we  in  very  deed  appeased 
With  barley-cakes  of  sacrifice? 

The  forest  knew  her  and  was  glad, 
And  laughed  for  very  joy  to  know 

Her  child  was  with  her;  then,  grown  sad, 
She  wept,  because  her  child  must  go. 

And  Alice,  like  a  little  Faun, 
Went  leaping  over  rocks  and  ferns, 

Coursing  the  shadow-race  from  dawn 
Until  the  twilight-flock  returns. 

And  she  would  spy  and  she  would  capture 
The  shyest  flower  that  lit  the  grass; 

The  joy  I  had  to  watch  her  rapture 
Was  keen  as  even  her  rapture  was. 


The  forest  knew  her  and  was  glad, 

And  laughed  and  wept  for  joy  and  woe. 
This  was  the  welcome  that  she  had 
Among  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau. 

—  Arthur  Symons. 
38 


To  Quenchless  Laughter 

Pan  fathered  thee,  Thalia  gave  thee  birth, 
O  quenchless  Laughter,  when  Man  first  was  sent 
To  strut  his  day,  and  give  thy  powers  vent 
That  thou  mightest  part  pretense  from  things  of 
worth; 

Kin  of  thy  blood  are  Happiness  and  Mirth, 

Thou  'rt  Joy's  stout  brother,  twin  to  Merriment, 
Wit's  follower,  comrade  to  Health  and  Content: 
Long  mayst  thou  live  to  shake  the  sober  earth! 

Folly's  first  foe  and  Pride's  best  enemy, 

Of  melancholy  the  unfailing  cure, 

And  certain  tonic  for  our  daily  smart, 
Come  Laughter,  with  Good  Cheer  and  Jollity, 

Man's  Honest  friend,  welcome  in  every  heart 

To  be  both  wealth  and  solace  for  the  poor! 

—  Wallace  Eice. 


The  girl  with  dimples  —  bless  her  soul! 

How  sweet  she  is  at  Mirth's  alarm 
In  leaving  Laughter,  as  a  whole, 

Not  only  Merriment,  but  Charm. 

—  Oliver  Marble. 

Long  before  the  college  cheer 
Caaie  to  vex  the  modern  ear, 
Laughter  could  a  better  show: 
Ha-ha-ha!     Ha-ha!     Ho-ho! 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 

I  had  rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry, 
Than  experience  to  make  me  sad. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 
39 


From  "The  Golfer's  Rubaiyat" 

Wake!  for  the  sun  has  driven  in  equal  flight 
The  stars  before  him  from  the  Tee  of  Night, 
And  holed  them  every  one  without  a  miss, 
Swinging  at  ease  his  gold-shod  Shaft  of  Light. 


Now  the  fresh  Year,  reviving  old  Desires, 
The  thoughtful  Soul  to  Solitude  retires, 

Pores  on  this  Club  and  That  with  anxious  eye, 
And  dreams  of  Bounds  beyond  the  Rounds  of  Liars. 

Come,  choose  your  Ball,  and  in  the  Fire  of  Spring 
Your  Eed  Coat,  and  your  wooden  Putter  fling; 

The  Club  of  Time  has  but  a  little  while 
To  waggle,  and  the  Club  is  on  the  swing. 

Whether  at  Musselburgh  or  Shinnecock, 
In  motley  Hose  or  humbler  motley  Sock, 

The  Cup  of  Life  is  ebbing  Drop  by  Drop, 
Whether  the  Cup  be  filled  with  Scotch  or  Bock. 

A  Bag  of  Clubs,  a  Silver-Town  or  two, 

A  Flask  of  Scotch,  a  Pipe  of  Shag  —  and  Thou 

Beside  me  caddying  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Ah,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow. 


Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Jamie  and  His,  and  heard  great  argument 

Of  Grip  and  Stance  and  Swing;  but  evermore 
Found  at  the  Exit  but  a  Dollar  spent. 

40 


With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  sought  to  make  it  grow; 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reaped: 
"You  hold  it  This  Way,  and  you  swing  it  So." 


The  swinging  Brassie  strikes;  and,  having  struck, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  Wit  or  future  Luck 
Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Stroke, 
Nor  from  the  Card  a  single  Seven  pluck. 


And  that  inverted  Ball  they  call  the  High  — 
By  which  the  Duffer  thinks  to  live  or  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help,  for  it 
As  impotently  froths  as  you  or  I. 


I  sometimes  think  that  never  springs  so  green 
The  Turf  as  where  some  Good  Fellow  has  been, 

And  every  emerald  Stretch  the  Fair  Green  shows 
His  kindly  Tread  has  known,  his  sure  Play  seen. 


Yon  rising  Moon  that  leads  us  Home  again, 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  wait  for  us 
At  this  same  Turning  —  and  for  One  in  vain. 


And  when,  like  her,  my  Golfer,  I  have  been 
And  am  no  more  above  the  pleasant  Green, 

And  you  in  your  mild  Journey  pass  the  Hole 
I  made  in  One  —  ah!  pay  my  Forfeit  then! 

—  Henry  Walcott  Boynton. 
41 


Laughing  Bill 

I  know  a  shiftless  sort  o'  chap 

Who  never  cares  to  work; 
The  only  duties  that  he  has 

He  always  tries  to  shirk; 
The  few  things  he  attempts  to  do 

He  does  without  much  skill, 
And  yet,  somehow,  folks  seem  to  like  — 

And  sometimes  love  —  old  Bill. 

He  has  no  wife  or  chick  or  child, 

He  does  not  own  a  cent, 
Nor  home,  nor  clothes,  worth  speaking  of; 

And  yet  he  seems  content. 
And  what  is  better,  everywhere 

He  takes  contentment  still, 
For  he  is  always  laughing,  and 

They  call  him  Laughing  Bill. 

There  is  n't  anything  you  ask 

Bill  will  not  start  to  do; 
He  keeps  you  guessing  all  the  time  — 

But  keeps  you  laughing,  too. 
And  every  hour  of  every  day 

We  send  for  him,  until 
He  is  the  busiest  thing  in  town, 

Old  lazy  Laughing  Bill. 


The  children  tag  him  all  about; 

He  gives  them  from  his  store 
Of  useless  things  the  things  they  love, 

Till  he  can  give  no  more, 

42 


And  then  he  starts  to  make  them  toys 

With  heariest  good  will  — 
They  're  never  made;  but  then,  he  tries, 

And  laughs,  and  goes, —  old  Bill! 

The  mothers  love  him,  and  the  men 

All  smile  to  see  him  roun', 
No  one  is  half  so  popular 

In  all  that  blessed  town. 
He  chases  far  away  the  tears 

Of  every  Jack  and  Jill; 
He  laughs,  and  then  they  're  laughing,  too, 

At  sight  of  Laughing  Bill. 

And  I  've  a  notion  when  it  comes 

To  doing  good  on  earth, 
The  lantern- jaw  may  make  things  go, 

However  lacking  mirth; 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  on  the  Great  Day 

I  cannot  think  that  ill 
Is  coming  to  that  idle,  shiftless, 

Lazy  Laughing  Bill! 

—  Oliver  Marble. 


A  merrier  man 

Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal: 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-loving  jest. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 

Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can. 

—  Alexander  Pope. 
43 


A    Match 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 


H 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 
If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 

44 


And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We  'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We  'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying  feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 

And  find  his  mirth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  lord  of  pain. 

— Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

Her  smile  was  prodigal  of  summery  shine, — 
Gayly  persistent,  —  like  a  morn  in  June 
That  laughs  away  the  clouds,  and  up  and  down 
Goes  making  merry  with  the  ripening  grain. 

—  Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 

Man  laughs: 

In  youth  because  he  knows  no  better; 

In  age  because  he  knows  so  well. 

—  Christopher  Bannister. 
45 


^) 


The  Collaboration 

The  novelist  (lady)  was  in  despair 
Hours  and  hours  she  'd  sat  her  there, 

With  one  hand  pressed 

To  her  storm-tossed  chest 

And  the  other  hand  clutched  in  her  brown  back  hair. 
Her  novel  was  finished,  save  Chapter  Last; 
All  previous  efforts  had  been  surpassed; 

But  what  to  do 

With  the  puppets  who 
Had  danced  to  her  fiddling  she  hardly  knew. 


Shall  she  marry  Claude  to  the  Lady  Grey? 
Or  hash  his  hopes  with  a  mincing  Nay? 
Shall  she  kill  the  villain,  or  let  him  stay 
On  earth  that  Remorse  may  on  him  prey? 

And  how  about 

The  adventuress  stout? 
And  the  rakish  Lord  with  a  touch  of  gout? 

And  the  ingenue 

With  the  eyes  so  blue  — 
What  at  the  end  shall  this  puppet  do? 
Thus  she  fingered  the  ends  of  her  tangled  plot 
And  pondered  how  she  should  untie  the  knot. 


The  more  she  pondered,  the  worse  it  got. 
"I  never,"  she  cried,  "shall  undo  this  knot, 
Unless  by  chance, 
In  a  dream  or  trance, 
I  see  the  end  of  my  great  romance. 

Till  then,"  she  said,  with  a  mournful  sigh, 
46 


"To  finish  the  novel  I  need  not  try." 

And  feeling  the  need 

Of  a  little  feed, 
She  ate  the  whole  of  a  large  mince  pie. 

She  went  to  "bed  with  a  heavy  heart, 
To  awake  betimes  with  a  fearful  start; 

For  on  her  chest, 

Disturbing  her  rest, 
Was  a  little  old  man  in  a  purple  vest. 

"You  find  me  here," 

He  remarked  with  a  leer, 
As  he  cocked  his  hat  o'er  his  large  left  ear, 

"To  untie  the  knot 

Of  your  wonderful  plot; 

For  I  know  who  's  who  and  I  know  what  's  what. 
You  must  marry  Claude  to  the  Lady  Grey 
And  balk  the  villain  of  his  prey. 
The  rakish  Lord  with  a  touch  of  gout 
Must  elope  with  the  lady  a  trifle  stout. 
And  a  convent's  walls  must  hide  from  view 
The  ingenue  with  the  eyes  so  blue." 

Then  the  little  old  man  with  the  purple  vest 
Removed  himself  from  the  lady's  chest, 

And  he  vanished  from  view 

Up  the  chimney  flue, 
As  such  queer  people  are  wont  to  do. 

The  lady  came  out  of  her  mince-pie  trance 
And  wrote  the  end  of  her  great  romance. 


Oh,  I  am  stabbed  with  laughter. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 

47 


Lilian 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  through  and  through  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks: 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning  simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 
Then  away  she  flies. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian: 
Through  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver  laughter  trilleth: 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian. 


Pray  all  I  can, 

If  prayers^will  not  hush  thee, 
Airy  Lilian, 
48 


Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 
Fairy  Lilian. 

—  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson 


There  is  a  garden  in  her  face, 
Where  roses  and  white  lilies  grow; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  show. 

There  cheries  grow,  which  none  may  buy 

Till  "Cherry  ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearls  a  double  row; 
Which,  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with  snow. 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 
Till  "Cherry  ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  attempt,  with  eye  or  hand, 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh 
Till  "Cherry  ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

—  Thomas  Campion. 

The  bubble  winked  at  me,  and  said, 

"You  '11  miss  me,  brother,  when  I  'm  dead." 

—  Oliver  Herf ord. 


Laugh  if  you  are  wise. 

—  Marcus  Valerius  Martialis. 

49 


Ballade  of  the  Comic  Muse 

Hail!  mistress  of  the  merry  tongue, 
Of  lively  wit  and  laughing  mood; 

Gay  queen  of  humor,  ever  young; 
Withal  full  of  solicitude 
To  ease  life's  worst  vicissitude 

By  some  sage  jest  or  subtle  ruse 
Of  rhyme  to  teach  us  not  to  brood 

When  we  may  court  thee,  Comic  Muse! 

Since  ancient  Horace  gibed  and  flung 

His  verses  at  Rome's  feet,  the  crude 
Conceits  of  time  quaint  bards  have  sung 

To  make  dismay  a  platitude 

And  give  a  wider  latitude 
To  joyousness;  for  who  would  choose 

The  worries  of  life's  endless  feud 
When  we  may  court  the  Comic  Muse? 


No;  let  us  rather  lounge  among 

Byways  obscure,  and  thus  elude 
The  striving  hordes  whose  gains  arj  wrung 

From  tortured  lives  and  servitude. 

If  fate  is  harsh  and  times  are  rude, 
To  best  resist  —  have  nought  to  lose; 
When  we  may  court  the  Comic  Muse? 

Muse,  lest  ambition  should  delude, 
Be  gracious,  nor  our  suit  refuse; 

For  mirth  shall  every  ill  exclude 
When  we  may  court  thee,  Comic  Muse! 

—  Bay  Clark«  Eose. 

50 


I  Only  Laugh 

I  only  laugh  at  the  invidious  grin 
With  which  the  goat- faced  herd  at  me  do  stare; 
I  laugh,  too,  at  the  foxes,  who  with  bare 
Gaunt  paunches  sniff  and  gape,  all  hunge»-thin. 

I  laugh,  too,  at  the  apes  that  look  so  wise, 
And  swell  themselves  to  arbiters  of  thought; 
I  laugh,  too,  at  the  craven  good-for-nought, 
Who  with  his  poisoned  steel  in  ambush  lies. 

For    when    Good    Fortune's    wreath    of    Life's    best 

flowers 

Is  smitten  by  the  hand  of  adverse  Fate, 
And  shattered  at  our  feet  lies  all  forlorn, 
And  when  the  heart  within  the  breast  is  torn, 
Torn,  broken,  cleft  in  twain  and  desolate, — 
Why, —  shrill,  ironic  laughter  still  is  ours! 

—  From  the  German  of  Heine. 

Laugh  and  grow  fat; 

Frown  and  be  thin: 
When  you  know  that, 
Laugh  and  grow  fat, 
Tie  your  cravat 

Bound  double  chin: 
Laugh  and  grow  fat; 

Frown  and  be  thin. 

—  Oliver  Marble. 

What  then  remains,  but  well  our  power  to  use, 
And  keep  good  humor  still,  whatever  we  lose? 
And  trust  me,  dear,  good  humor  can  prevail 
When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams  and  scolding  fail. 

—  Alexander  Pope. 


Time's  Little  Joke 

First  you  're  born  —  and  I  '11  be  bound  you 
Find  a  dozen  strangers  round  you. 
"Hallo,"  cries  the  new-born  baby, 
"Where  's  my  parents?  which  may  they  be?" 

Awkward  silence  —  no  reply  — 

Puzzled  baby  wonders  why! 
Father  rises,  bows  politely  — 
Mother  smiles  (but  not  too  brightly)  — 
Doctor  mumbles  like  a  dumb  thing  — 
Nurse  is  busy  mixing  something. — 

Every  symptom  tends  to  show 

You  're  decidedly  de  trop  — 

You  grow  up,  and  you  discover 
What  it  is  to  be  a  lover. 
Some  young  lady  is  selected  — 
Poor,  perhaps,  but  well-connected, 

Whom  you  hail  (for  Love  is  blind) 

As  the  queen  of  fairy  kind. 
Though  she  's  plain  —  perhaps  unsightly, 
Makes  her  face  up  —  laces  tightly, 
In  her  form  your  fancy  traces 
All  the  gifts  of  all  the  graces. 

Rivals  none  the  maiden  woo, 

So  you  take  her  and  she  takes  you! 

Ten  years  later  —  Time  progresses  — 
Sours  your  temper  —  thins  your  tresses; 
Fancy,  then,  her  chin  relaxes; 
Bates  are  facts  and  so  are  taxes. 

Fairy  Queen  's  no  longer  young  — 

Fairy  Queen  has  got  a  tongue. 

52 


Twins  have  probably  intruded  — 
Quite  unbidden  —  just  as  you  did  — 
They  're  a  source  of  care  and  trouble  — 
Just  as  you  were  —  only  double. 

Comes  at  last  the  final  stroke  — 

Time  has  had  his  little  joke! 

—  William  Schwenck  Gilbert. 


When  My  Love  Laughs 

When  my  Love  laughs,  the  prettiest  dimples  grow 
Upon  her  cheeks,  and  rippling  rillets  flow 

From  her  sweet  lips  to  prove  the  sweetest  mirth, 
And  lips  are  parted  for  those  pearls,  whose  worth 
Sultan  and  Shah  do  not  so  much  as  know; 

And  all  about  the^tenderest  roses  blow  — 
The  loveliest  blossoms  mortals  see  below  — 
Methinks  all  roses  there  must  have  their  birth 
When  my  Love  laughs. 

And,  more  than  this,  the  day  begins  to  glow 
The  birds  to  sing,  and  radiant  Dawn  to  strow 
Her  roses  over  all  the  gladdened  earth  — 
Bloomed  e'er  such  joy  within  such  tiny  girth? 
For  surely  Heaven  no  merrier  sight  can  show 
When  my  Love  laughs! 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 


If  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing 
'T  is  that  I  may  not  weep. 

—  George  Lord  Byron. 
53 


The  Village  Epicurean 

Take  note  of  this,  ye  gentry  who 

Your  self-made  sorrows  mourn! 
Unblest  with  even  a  single  sou 

Blithe  Pierre  le  Gros  was  born; 
At  ease  to  live,  eschewing  fame, 

Of  discontent  the  foe  — 
Such,  sirs,  the  modest  end  and  aim 

Of  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 

A  hat  —  the  product,  you'd  suppose, 

Of  his  great-grandsire's  day  — 
With  ivy  now,  and  now  with  rose 

Perennially  gay! 
A  suit  of  sacking,  first  possessed 

Some  twenty  years  ago  — 
Such,  sirs,  the  wardrobe  at  its  best 

Of  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 

A  pack  of  cards,  a  flageolet, 

A  table,  an  old  bed, 
An  empty  chest,  a  silhouette  — 

His  sweetheart's,  be  it  said; 
A  jug  which  Providence  takes  care 

Shall  never  cease  to  flow  — 
Such,  sirs,  the  utmost  wealth  can  spare 

To  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 


Instructor  to  the  little  folk 
In  games  of  every  kind, 

Profuse  with  pleasantry  and  joke 
More  racy  than  refined; 
54 


In  country  dance  and  catch  and  glee 
His  knowledge  prompt  to  show  — 

Such,  sirs,  the  whole  proficiency 
Of  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 

Since  costly  brands  he  cannot  get, 

Content  with  common  wine, 
Preferring  chubby-cheeked  Nanette 

To  damsels  superfine; 
With  loving-kindness   brimming  o'er, 

With  harmless  mirth  aglow  — 
Such,  sirs,  the  philosophic  lore 

Of  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 

Humbly  to  fall  upon  his  knees 

And  to  his  Father  say: 
"Pardon  me  if  my  life  displease 

By  being  a  thought  too  gay; 
I  ask  but  till  the  end  to  share 

The  bliss  that  now  I  know." — 
Such,  sirs,  the  unpretending  prayer 

Of  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 


Ye  Poor,  who  filled  with  envy  fret, 

Ye  Rich,  whose  pleasures  pall, 
Ye  Great,  who,  striving  more  to  get, 

Too  oft  are  stripped  of  all; 
Ye  Kings,  who  see  your  crowns  depart, 

Your  dynasties  laid  low, 
A  lesson  learn  and  learn  by  heart 

From  jolly  Pierre  le  Gros! 
William  Toynbee,  from  the  French  of  Beranger. 

55 


Ballade  of  the  Merry  Bard 

Though  through  the  cloudy  ranks  of  morn 

The  Sun-god  sends  no  golden  ray, 
Though  swift  along  the  air  are  borne 

The  feathery  shafts  that  none  may  stay; 

Though  wrathful  storm-blasts  pangless  slay, 
And  wan  the  patient  plodder  rues 

His  lonely  lot  each  dagging  day  — 
He  's  gay  who  courts  the  merry  muse! 

When  down  the  fields  the  tender  corn 
Upsprings,  and  sees  blue  skies  in  May, 

When  budding  blooms  the  boughs  adorn, 
And  flowers  bespangle  sprig  and  spray, 
When  torrid  summer's  regnant  sway 

Has  dimmed  the  foliage's  fairest  hues, 
And  bronzed  reapers  house  the  hay  — 

He  's  gay  who  courts  the  merry  muse! 

And  when  the  hollow  harvest  horn 

O'erflows  with  autumn's  rich  display, 
When  high,  with  goodly  grain,  new-shorn, 

Is  piled  each  lofty  granary, 

When,  like  dark  moons  amid  the  gray 
Of  cornfields,  where  the  red  ear  woos, 

The  pumpkins  lie  in  long  array  — 
He  's  gay  who  courts  the  merry  muse! 


Prince,  e'en  though  Fortune  go  astray 
And  lost  is  wealth's  bright-shining  cruse, 

Though  dark  and  drear  the  weary  way  — 
He  's  gay  who  courts  the  merry  muse. 

—  Clinton  Scollard. 

56 


The  Tables  Turned 

Every  happy  thing  on  earth 

Comes  to  crown  our  mortal  birth; 

Roses  red,  and  azure  sky, 

Violets,  and  the  day's  eye, 

Singing  maid,  and  whistling  boy, 

Birds  with  many  a  burst  of  joy, 

Meadows  that  the  sunlight  dapples, 

Golden  pears,  and  ruddy  apples, 

Forest  leaves  in  bright  autumn, 

Aster,  and  chrysanthemum, 

Sapphire  shadows  on  the  snow, 

Frost  flowers  on  the  cold  window, 

Youth,  and  dainty  maidens'  kisses, 

Smiles  and  dimples,  fragrant  tresses, 

Love,  and  al\  a  lover's  blisses. 

All  have  happiness,  of  course, 

Which  the  poet  sings  perforce 

In  some  poem  large  or  small, 

Epic,  sonnet,  madrigal, 

Summing  up,  in  his  good  leisure, 

All  he  thinks  we  know  of  pleasure; 

Yet  neglected,  quite  unsung, 

Standeth  one  of  blither  tongue, 

And,  when  he  has  sung  of  these  — 

Lo!  a  sound  of  revelries! 

Eyes  half  closed,  and  shaking  side, 

Gasping  breath,  lips  parted  wide, 

Loud  resounding  to  the  rafter, 

Hear  hale,  hearty,  thoughtless  Laughter! 

And,  although  he  may  not  know  it, 

Laughter  's  laughing  at  the  poet! 

—  Wallace  Rice. 

57 


The  Laughing  Satyr 

Thou  woodland  dweller  of  elusive  Greece, 

Thou  laughing  Satyr  of  the  days  of  Pan, 
Who  caught  thee  from  thy  freedom  and  thy  peace 

And  made  thee  thrall  to  dull  prosaic  man? 

What  demon  huge  beside  thee  nimbly  ran 
With  horrid  eyes  that  chilled  thee  into  stone, 

Froze  all  thy  mirth  as  only  demons  can, 
Checked  thy  gay  blood,  and  made  his  very  own 
Thy  laughter  and  thy  song,  and  left  thee  thus  alone? 


Most  lonesome  wight,  't  is  twice  a  thousand  years 
Since  those  crisp  leaves  that  bind  thy  marble  brow 

From  tree  were  torn  and  shed  their  fragrant  tears; 
Yea,  twice  a  thousand  years  engulf  thee  now 
From  that  glad  time  and  from  the  myrtle  bough  — 

From  high  Arcadian  woods,  and  from  that  gaze 
Which  stilled  the  heart  that  never  questioned  how. 

So  suddenly  were  darkened  thy  bright  ways, 

So  swiftly  blotted  out  those  dear  delightful  days. 


Oh,  long  ago  thy  comrades  fled  the  earth 

And  all  the  gods  departed  long  ago. 
Couldst  thou  this  hour  regain  thy  wonted  mirth, 

No  haunt,  no  face  were  found  that  thou  wouldst 
know; 

No  songs  are  sung,  the  graves  are  mossed  with  woe, 
The  streams  are  nymphless,  and  the  ruby  morn 

Sets  no  fair  sylvan  temple  all  aglow; 
The  fields  are  dreamless,  and  the  hills  forlorn; 
Sweet  echoes  tease  no  more,  nor  is  one  satyr  born. 
58 


Laugh  on,  laugh  on  in  ignorance  of  change, 

For  ever  keep  those  lips  remembering 
Their  mirth,  those  eyes  their  loves,  nor  think  it  strange. 

The  dryads  them  dost  see  will  endless  sing, 

The  bloom  be  bloom  for  ever,  and  the  spring 
Flood  thy  glad  fields  with  fragrance  and  with  light 

To  farthest  time,  nor  any  joy  take  wing. 
Yet  they  are  gone,  all  gone  into  the  night 
Of  countless  yesterdays,  beyond  the  misty  height. 

Live  on,  laugh  on  in  white  unchanging  stone; 

'T  is  better  so  than  that  thy  heart  shouldst  wake 
Unto  the  blow  that  thou  art  left  alone. 

A  time  may  come  when  wearied  earth  shall  take 

Her  leafy  path  again,  and  men  forsake 
Their  mad  designs;  till  then,  cold  marble  be! 

A  face  of  laughter  flouting  grief  and  ache, 
An  eye  intent  upon  the  wind  and  free, 
A  heart  as  light  as  any  wind  in  Arcady. 

—  Charles  G.  Blanden. 

Why  We  Laugh 

We  laugh  at  what? 
At  anything  that  goes  awry; 

Because  our  woes  are  part  forgot; 
Because  't  is  better  than  to  sigh; 

We  laugh  at  what 
We  cannot  help  —  our  common  lot, 
Even  because  we  're  going  to  die; 

Because  we  'd  rather  laugh  than  not: 
These  seem  to  be  some  reasons  why 
We  laugh  at  — What? 

—  Oliver  Marble. 
50 


Jocosa  Lyra 

In  our  hearts  is  the  great  one  of  Avon 

Engraven, 

And  we  climb  the  cold  summits  once  built  on 

By  Milton. 

But  at  times  not  the  air  that  is  rarest 

Is  fairest, 

And  we  long  in  the  valley  to  follow 

Apollo. 

Then  we  drop  from  the  heights  atmospheric 

To  Herrick, 

Or  we  pour  the  Greek  honey,  grown  blander. 

Of  Land  or; 

Or  our  cosiest  nook  in  the  shade  is 

Where  Praed  is, 

Or  we  toss  the  light  balls  of  the  mocker 

With  Locker. 


Oh,  the  song  where  not  one  of  the  Graces 

Tight-laces, — 

Where  we  woo  the  sweet  Muses  not  starchlVj 

But  archly, — 

Where  the  verse,  like  a  piper  a-Maying, 

Comes  playing, 

And  the  rhyme  is  as  gay  as  a  dancer 

In  answer, 

It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  pleasure 

In  measure! 
60 


It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  laughter    .    .    . 

And  after! 

—  Austin  Dobson. 


The  Loons 

Once  ye  were  happy,  once  by  many  a  shore, 
Wherever  Glooscap's  gentle  feet  might  stray, 
Lulled  by  his  presence  like  a  dream,  ye  lay 
Floating  at  rest;  but  that  was  long  of  yore. 

He  was  too  good  for  earthly  men;  he  bore 
Their  bitter  deeds  for  many  a  patient  day, 
And  then  at  last  he  took  his  unseen  way. 
He  was  your  friend,  and  ye  might  rest  no  more: 

And  now,  though  many  hundred  altering  years 
Have  passed,  among  the  desolate  northern  meres 
Still  must  ye  search  and  wander  querulously, 

Crying  for  Glooscap,  still  bemoan  the  light 
With  weird  entreaties,  and  in  agony 
With  awful  laughter  pierce  the  lonely  night. 

—  Archibald  Lampman. 

In  the  vain  laughter  of  folly 
Wisdom  hears  half  its  applause. 

—  George  Eliot. 

It  is  good 
To  lengthen  to  the  last  a  sunny  mood. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 

'T  is  over  common 
That  men  are  merriest  when  they  are  from  home. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 
61 


d 

m 


Laughter  and  Death 

There  is  no  laughter  in  the  natural  world 
Of  beast  or  fish  or  bird,  though  no  sad  doubt 
Of  their  futurity  to  them  unfurled 
Has  dared  to  check  the  mirth-compelling  shout. 

The  lion  roars  his  solemn  thunder  out 
To  the  sleeping  woods.     The  eagle  screams  her  cry. 
Even  the  lark  must  strain  a  serious  throat 
To  hurl  his  blest  defiance  at  the  sky. 

Fear,  anger,  jealousy  have  found  a  voice. 

Love's  pain  or  rapture  the  brute  bosoms  swell. 

Nature  has  symbols  for  her  nobler  joys, 
Her  nobler  sorrows.     Who  had  dared  foretell 

That  only  man,  by  some  sad  mockery. 

Should  learn  to  laugh  who  learns  that  he  must  die. 
—  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt. 

Laugh  not  too  much;  the  witty  man  laughs  least. 

—  George  Herbert. 


«2 


Acknowledgment 

The  thanks  of  the  compilers  are  due  to  Mr.  Charles 
G.  Blanden  for  courteous  permission  to  include  herein 
"Eigadoon"  and  "The  Laughing  Satyr";  to  Mr.  Ge- 
lett  Burgess  for  "Vive  la  Bagatelle!";  to  Messrs. 
Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  the  late  Richard 
Hovey's  "Barney  McGee";  to  Mr.  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley  and  Messrs.  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Com- 
pany, owners  of  the  copyright,  for  "Laughter  Hold- 
ing Both  His  Sides"  and  the  quatrain  used;  to  Mr. 
Henry  Walcott  Boynton  and  Mr.  Herbert  S.  Stone 
for  extracts  from  "The  Golfer's  Eubaiyat";  to  Mr. 
Ray  Clarke  Rose  for  "Thalia",  "The  Mask  of  Mirth" 
and  "Ballade  of  the  Comic  Muse" ;  and  to  Messrs.  John 
Jarvis  Holden  and  Oliver  Marble  for  many  favors. 


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